Storymania - The Man From Sierra Madre by Kevin Myrick

The Man From Sierra Madre
Kevin Myrick

It was the morning after the death of Mary, and both of the killers were sitting in a coffee shop in Sierra Madre,
contemplating a problem they might have. They were contemplating the problem of Woody Dean. They were also contemplating
the problem of what to do about Mary’s boyfriend. They were both in uniform, sipping coffee and eating breakfast.

“Look Roger, I really don’t see this as that big of a problem. We can get rid of Woody and the boyfriend. We’ll
obtain a search warrant and all, say it’s a bust, then kill them.”
Roger sat silent for a moment. “You know what this whole situation is beginning to remind me of?”
“What’s that Roger?”
“The movie Training Day.”
“Shit man, we’re so much cooler than Denzel Washington and the other guys in that movie. But the Spanish chick in
that movie was hot.”
“Technically, I think she was Ecuadorian, but that’s beside the point.”
“What was her name anyhow?” Joe asked.
“I think it was Penelope Cruz.”
“No no no, I don’t think that was her.”
“Sure looks like her.”
“Yeah, man was she hot in that movie.”
“She was a muchacha atractiva.”
They both laughed for a moment, let it die out. They both took a sip of coffee.
“So what do you think we should do then? I don’t think we can obtain a search warrant that easily.”
“We could call the Frenchman.”
“We could indeed.”
“You have his cell?”
“I might. Are we talking hypothetically here, or are we serious about this?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we should be serious about this.”
“Why don’t we see what the chief wants to do first, then we’ll talk. The Frenchman won’t do this very cheaply.”
“Yeah, I was thinking about that. Why don’t we take the cash we got from the bitch to pay the Frenchman?”
“Sounds like a plan.”

They sat again for a moment, and drank some more coffee.

“You catch the football game last night after we got back?”
“There was a game on?” Roger asked, somewhat surprised.
“Yeah, USC was playing somebody. I think it was Auburn, some southern team I’ve never heard of. USC won.”
“Hmm.”
“What are you thinking?”
“How much I wish I was playing football again.”

The other two cops who were involved show up.
“Hey Smith, Jones.” Roger said.
“Hey guys,” Smith replied.
“So what did you guys do last night?” Joe asked, with a wink and a smirk on his face.
“Watched the game, what else.” Jones said.
“See Roger, I told you. Should have watched the game.”
“Man, fuck you.” Roger said, chuckling.
A round of chuckles ended the conversation. Jones and Smith both sat down in the booth with Roger and Joe, making
the scoot over their plates and coffee cups. The waitress came up.
“What can I get you guys?”
“Coffee. Two eggs, scrambled, Bacon not crispy and hashbrowns.”
“Hungry Smith? Normally you just get toast.” Joe said, poking a bit of fun.
Everyone laughed again.
“What about you sonny?” The waitress said. She older, the type of waitress that has been a waitress for a while. She
knew these guys were younger, and they had been coming in here for a long time. She could call them ‘sonny’ if she felt like
it.
“Well, let’s see. Buttermilk Pancakes, Bacon, hashbrowns and coffee.”
“How you want your bacon hon?”
“Floppy. Not burned.”
“It’ll be just a minute boys.”
“Thanks Maureen.” Smith said before she walked off with their order, shouting it at the short order cooks in back.

Joe again brought up the problem of Woody and the boyfriend again. They all sat and contemplated it.

“Are we sure we want to get the Frenchman involved in this. It could blow up in our faces after all. He’s a bit hard to control at times.” Smith then grabbed a cigarette, and took a sip of his coffee that Maureen had just brought them.
“Well, I dunno. He could be controlled, if we tell him just what he needs to know.”
“I have a question,” Jones asked.
“What’s that?” Roger said.
“Do we even know who this other guy is?”
“Not a damn clue. He’s been to a couple of the deals before. He carries two .45’s. He’s was her boyfriend or something like that.”
“So he has no record, nothing like that.”
“Nope.”
“And we’ve checked for prints, shit like that.”
“Not a damn thing.”
“Hmm.”
“You want me to ask around, see what I can find out for us?” Joe asked.
“Yeah, do that Joe.”
“I swear man,” Roger started to say, “this seriously reminds me of Training Day.”
“Hey, who was the broad in that movie Jones. The Spanish one that is really hot.”
“She’s supposed to be Ecuadorian in the movie, or Columbian. One of those damn South American countries. Isn’t it
Penelope Cruz?”
“No, it’s not Penelope Cruz. It’s Eva Mendes.”
“How do you know this Smith?”
“Cause I watched the fucking credits, Jones. And you’re supposed to be the movie buff.”
“Fuck you man.” Jones retorted, ending the conversation.

Jones and Smith’s food came, right as their cigarettes were done.
“Thanks Maureen, you sure know how to take care of us.”
“If I didn’t, no one would, now would they?”
“I guess not.” Jones said to her.
Maureen walked off, leaving the four to discuss matters a bit more as they ate.
“So, basically what we’re dealing with here is a guy who is probably really pissed off that his girlfriend is dead,
knows who we are, and has guns. We need the Frenchman for this job. And we need him now.”
“We should consult the chief about this.” Roger said, looking directly at Smith.
“Yeah, we should. Or we could just take care of it now and let him ask questions later.”
“Okay, let’s do it then.”

With that, Roger picked up his cell phone, and began scrolling through numbers. He found the name he was looking for
on the screen. It was “Frenchman.” He hit the send button, connecting the call. It rang three times before he picked up.

“Oui?” The Frenchman answered groggily, obviously being woken up.
“Frenchman, it’s Roger.”
“Oui?”
“We have a job for you.”
“Who is the target?” The Frenchman asked, a heavy French accent covered his English, so that it was a mixture of
French and English really. Women loved it, men despised it.
“Woody Dean. We’ll get back to you with the other name soon.”
“I see. It’s going to cost you. Woody is known by many. Many will be unhappy.”
“Yeah, it’s priority though. How much.”
“45.”
“That’s a lot.”
“These are trying times. People will be angry with his death. They might start asking questions I don’t want to
answer.”
“Okay, 45 it is.”
“Get back to me on the other name Roger.”
“I shall.”
And with that, the Frenchman hung up.

“45 large?” Joe asked.
“Yeah.”
“Fuck, that’s expensive.”
“We’ve got it. Remember, Mary’s money?”
“Hold on a second,” Smith interrupted. “That’s money to pay off other people. We can’t use that.”
“Remember who we are. If other people want paid off, we can kill them easily,” Joe replied.
“Look, we can’t just go and kill everyone.”
“Sure we can. We’re the cops, remember?”
“It’s Eva Mendes, remember that. She’s the chick from Training Day.”

* * *

The Frenchman rolled out of bed after the phone call, and got on his computer. He needed an address, a telephone
number for Woody. He knew Woody quite well, he had been contracted by him before for some wet work on a couple of people who
Woody needed taken care of. Just some bums really, something Woody could have done himself. But Woody would have shot them,
and Woody needed his job to look like an accident. Now, Woody would have an accident himself.

So the Frenchman rolled out of bed, and put on some clothes. His regular attire, black slacks, black t-shirt and a
black sports coat. These clothing were his trademark, he wore them to look suave. But indeed, they had another purpose: blood
does not show well on black clothing. It will stain, but it can be worn while getting away from a job. This is why he wears
black. He put on some shoes, simple loafers and black cotton socks. Then, he went to his dresser drawer, and grabbed his
weapon. It was a Glock pistol, a 9mm. It was mostly made out of plastic, and was worn underneath his jacket in a shoulder
holster. Simple, but deadly in the case of all the men that needed to die by his hand. Deaths that were paid for by someone
else unwilling to do the work themselves. He was a master at killing men, and he would be deadly on this job.

He went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth and put on his glasses. His contacts were in the mail. He didn’t like to
wear glasses while he worked, because they were too hard to clean off. But if the option for him to wear contacts was not
there, he would have to do without for now. He was always doing without. He looked at himself in the mirror. “Vous pouvez
faire ceci encore.” He splashed water onto his face, then grabbed a towel and wiped his face clean. He took his gun out of
the holster, and checked the clip. He looked at it, silently counting to make sure the clip was full. Then, he slid the
clip back into place, and pulled the slide on the gun. It was ready to fire, and he placed the gun on safety, just to make
sure.

He left his bathroom, and made some coffee, waiting for the information to be found in the database on his computer.
He heard this distinctive “ding” sound, and got up from his cup of coffee to check the information he needed. He would go to
the house, and kill Woody. Then he would call his cleanup crew. The Russians would clean up the little Woody mess for cheap.
He’d only have to pay a few thousand of his cash. He would kill Woody, then have the Russians do the cleanup. That would be
their arrangement. He would call them after the deed was done.

The Frenchman walked away from the computer, sipped some more of his coffee, and then walked to the door. He opened
it, and then locked the door behind him. He walked to his car that was parked on the curb, and pressed the buttons on the
remote that would unlock his car. All of these things would seem routine, if he wasn’t subconsciously checking behind, to
the side of him, the rooftops around him for any sign of danger or death to come. The only place he failed to look was down
during his routine. He is after all, a trained killer. He puts his life on the line every job he takes, and yet thinks
nothing of it. He is after all a professional.

He drove off, heading towards his next job. Towards the someone else’s fate that would not be his. He drove off to kill yet
another.
* * *
Woody Dean was sitting in his apartment, wondering exactly how he was going to get out of Los Angeles without the
police who were probably now looking for him know about it. He sat in his apartment, looking at the options. He couldn’t
really drive, because they would pull him over and shoot him. He could take a train or a plane, but he couldn’t carry his
protection with him. He was stuck.

His cell phone rang. He picked it up, agitated. “Hell-o?”
“Woody.”
“Oh hey buddy, where are you?”
“You know I can’t tell you that. Why do you even bother?”
“Cause, I’m the curious type. You get what you need from the guy?”
Woody was speaking of a mutual friend of his and Mary’s boyfriend. He dealt in arms, it was suffice to say that was
all the information that Woody needed to know. He bought his firearms legally, and had the permits for them as well. If he
needed something illegal to use though, he knew who he could turn to in a pinch. And this was Rocky Moroso.

Rocky Moroso’s family had been in Hollywood since the studio era, and had moved from Brooklyn to help run the newly formed
unions during the studio era. His family had deep Mafia connections on the east and west coast of the United States, and
connections in Europe, Central America and even Southeast Asia. If someone needed to be taken out, they normally called
Rocky Moroso. However, Woody would not be calling Rocky on this occasion. Rocky could not get involved in the murder of cops.
Rocky Moroso would laugh at the thought of getting involved in such a situation. Wouldn’t even fathom or dream of this
situation. Rocky was practical to say the least, even logical about organized crime. Mary’s boyfriend was not, or isn’t now.

“Yeah, I got what I needed from Rocky.”
“You know better than to use names over the phone.”
“Shut the fuck up, I know what I’m doing. The cops already got a wiretap on your phone. I’ve got ten seconds. Look,
keep your eye out. Gotta go.”
“WAIT!” But he had already hung up. Woody should have known better than to do this shit, to get Mary involved. But
then again, she made her conscious choice like he did. The money was good. It was always good. And it was worth it. And then
again, how much was it worth it? Was it worth dying over? Knowing that someone is probably going to come and kill you for
something as insignificant as mentioning giving some illegal workers doing illegal things a raise? Is that worth the risk of
death?

Woody found a bottle of scotch in the cupboard and poured himself a glass. He walked into the bathroom with it, and began to
fill the tub. He walked back into the bedroom, and He found his cigarettes, and then stripped out of his clothes and sat
down in the bathtub, careful not to get his hand wet so that he could smoke. He didn’t hear the front door locks being picked.
And he didn’t hear the Frenchman creep into his house, silently searching for him.

The Frenchman crept around the house, searching for his target. The silencer was attached to his Glock. He peered around the
corner into the bathroom, his movements silenced by the music, a loud Pink Floyd guitar riff playing on the stereo. He found
his target sitting in the tub, smoking his last cigarette. He’d be saying his last words in just a few moments. Indeed, this
would be interesting.

“Excuse me monsieur, but you are about to die.” Woody looked up suddenly, and saw the Frenchman standing there, a
gun pointed in his face.
“FUCK ME!” Was all Woody could say. But no bullet came just yet.
“Excuse me monsieur, but do you know where the word fuck comes from?”
“What?”
“Do you know where the word F-U-C-K comes from?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, I shall tell you mes amis, for old times sake. Since I have done work for you, I will not automatically shoot
you in the head.”
“Merci, Le Frenchman,” is all Woody could say. He was sarcastic in this his last few minutes on earth. The Frenchman
noticed and grunted in distaste a bit, but then decided to continue.
“The word fuck comes from 1300’s England, when the nobles had to get consent from the king to conceive and have
children. It had something to do with the line of succession. Don’t ask me, I’m French. We have another phrase for this, but
not quite as good.”

The Frenchman signaled Woody to hand him a cigarette, and without thinking, Woody handed his killer a cigarette, and
even his Zippo to light it with. Woody took another cigarette for himself, and the Frenchman lit it for him, pocketing the
Zippo.

“I guess you can have that, since I won’t be needing it anymore. But please, continue. I wanted to hear the end of
this useless bit of knowledge.”
“I shall continue, merci.” The Frenchman took another drag of his cigarette. He inhaled, and gestured with his hand.
“So the king of England had to give his consent to the nobles for them to have sex. Funny, if you think about it. The king,
of all people, telling the nobles when they can fuck. I enjoy this idea. Anyhow, when the king gave his permission, a letter
would be posted on the door “Fornication Under Consent of the King. Fuck, get it?”
“Fuck you. Shoot me now.”
And so, the Frenchman shot him in the head. Very casually, the Frenchman put his cigarette out in the ashtray sitting on the
tub, and grabbed Woody’s cigarette out of his dead hand. He stubbed that out in the ashtray as well. Before he could turn
around and get his cell phone out of his pocket, he noticed that he was not alone.

The Boyfriend stood in the doorway behind him, and spoke. “Hello friend, I heard you might be paying my friend a
little visit. What do they call you again?”
“The Frenchman. And I believe they call you the Boyfriend, since you don’t have a ‘name’. At least, that is according
to my contractors.”
“And who would they be?”
“You know who they are, monsieur. Don’t pretend that the same people who killed your girlfriend don’t have a hit out
on you as well.”
The music changed to an appropriate Pink Floyd song, ‘Money’ off of Darkside of the Moon. The mood as well changed,
from one of an air of camaraderie to that of hired guns, enemies at the hand of money. The Frenchman asked only one question.

“What is your name, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I do mind you asking, mes amis. Let’s change the subject to something I want to talk about. But first, let’s
dispose of all weapons on your person, and hand cuff you to something so I can keep a good eye on you before I decide to
kill you. Strip down, and remove any firearms or sharp weapons you might have on you please.”
The Frenchman, realizing now just how outclassed he was, complied. After all, it was an old adage in this country that you
‘don’t talk to a man with a shotgun in his hand.’ He didn’t remember the singer who used that quote. It had been remade on
many occasions, he figured it didn’t really matter at this point. He would be a dead man soon enough. As soon as this man
with the shotgun got the information he wanted.

“So, here’s what I want to know,” the Boyfriend said after the Frenchman had stripped down to his underwear. “I want
to know, first off, which of these killers hired you to kill.”

The Frenchman sat for a second, waiting to be shot in the kneecap or somewhere painful with the shotgun. It would
definitely hurt, and he’d probably be killed anyhow. He was not willing to give up his contract that easily though. He’d done
his job, and now he just wanted to clean up the mess and go home.
“Look, understand something here. I’m not going to kill you unless I have to. I don’t want to kill you, I just want
revenge on my girlfriend’s head. She didn’t deserve to die the way she did, and you know this as well. So please be a friend.
Help me, please?”

The Frenchman looked at him for a second, and then decided to speak.
“It was Roger,” he said with a French accent, rolling the R and making the g sound with a z and s at the end, so it
sounded alluring when he said it. He didn’t mean to say Roger’s name that way, it just came out.
“Roger, that fuckhead.”
“Well, these are hard times, you know. Everyone is trying to get into the business, and no one has muscle like they
do in this county. Sierra Madre is one of the biggest traffic points in Southern California.”
“Shut up and tell me something I don’t know before I change my mind and shoot you in the fucking mouth.”
“Okay, the other officers who are responsible are a man named Joe, and two who go by Smith and Jones. They work with
the Chief of Police of Sierra Madre. I beg you to please seek the vengeance you go after. And know this, monsieur, I will not
kill you. You will not die by an assassin’s hand. Only by the men who have killed your woman have that right. So go now, and
find them.”
“Thank you, mes amis.”
“Adieu, now go. I shall take care of Woody. It is unfortunate that I had to kill him, but he needed to die anyhow.”

The Boyfriend began to walk out, and stopped at the door. “He was responsible, you know?”
“For what?” The Frenchman asked, his eyes inquiring the most.
“He was responsible for Mary’s death. He said something he shouldn’t have, and because he did they suddenly decided
to get more greedy. I had just found out a few minutes ago and was coming to kill him myself. You beat me to the punch.
Greedy bastard.”
“Well, like I said, these are trying times.”
“Until that day Frenchman.”
“Until that day Boyfriend.”

And so the Boyfriend left the house, in search of a diner in Sierra Madre, looking for the first to men on his list: Jones
and Smith. He would kill them first, and the move on down the list until everyone responsible is dead. That’s how he would
do it.